


The Last Time I Saw Balthier

by 1000Needles



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8835991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000Needles/pseuds/1000Needles
Summary: Based on Joni Mitchell's song, The Last Time I Saw Richard. A bittersweet coda set in Archades.
This story was originally published April 27, 2007, in LiveJournal's ffxii-fic community. Spoilers through the end of the game.





	

The last time I saw Balthier was in Archades, two years after the Bahamut had exploded over Rabanastre. He still refused to say how he and Fran had escaped the conflagration. We were sitting at a table in the corner of the room.

"All romantics meet the same fate someday," he said, "cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café." I lifted a brow.

"You laugh," he said. "You think you're immune."

"I've never considered myself a romantic," I told him. His gaze met mine over the rim of his glass as he took a swig of beer and I recalled those nights when we were traveling together, the places where we'd found moments of peace in the midst of war: a tent in Jahara, a flea-ridden bed in some Balfonheim dive.

"You haven't changed," he said.

I ran a hand through my now close-cropped hair bemusedly; I was in full magisterial armor, having only just finished my duties for the day.

"In the mirror sometimes all I recognize is my scar."

"Look at your eyes. They're full of moon," he said. "You still like roses and kisses, and pretty men to tell you pretty lies. When will you realize they're only pretty lies?"

I had nothing to say to that, so I simply sat back in my chair and took him in. He looked tired, but otherwise no different than the man I remembered.

There was a musick-box on the table, and Balthier inserted the silver-inlaid end of his sandalwood chop and pushed the buttons. Piano-notes began to tinkle out of the machine. The barmaid stopped at our table and said, "Drink up, lords, it's nigh on time to close."

"Balthier, you haven't really changed," I said. "It's just that now you're romanticizing some pain that's in your head. You've got tombs in your eyes, but the songs you punched are singing of love."

He looked away and drained his glass. "I told you you're a romantic," he said.

In the old days he had turned to me sometimes after a particularly satisfying fight, smoking gun in hand, and smiled with such savage and infectious joy that I would attempt to fix the image in my mind to last me through his next dark mood. Try as I might, I could not summon up that smile now. "When are you going to get back on your feet?" I reached for his hand, hoping for one last union, although I could see he was already pushing back his chair. "Love can be so sweet."

"Closing time," said the barmaid. I caught a cab back to the palace alone.

 

* * * * *

 

Balthier got married to an opera singer and bought her a house in the country and a closet full of dresses. He drinks at home with all the lights left up bright. I imagine him reading: books on aerophysics, or political histories, or adventure-novels. I imagine him pouring another glassful, drunk, cynical.

I'm sitting in the corner of a tavern in Rienna. There's a candle in the center of the table, and I blow it out. I don't want anyone coming over to my table. I have nothing to talk about.

All good dreamers pass this way some day, hiding behind bottles in some dark café. Someday I will find my own wings and fly away. Only a phase, these dark café days.


End file.
